The Valley of Fear
by thereichenfall
Summary: Sherlock Holmes trusts the one woman who has been infatuated with him for years, Molly Hooper. Post-Reichenbach, Sherlolly and John x Mary Morstan
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock waits for Molly in the morgue. She enters, humming quietly to herself, blissfully unaware of what's to come.

"You're wrong, you know."

Molly jumps at Sherlock's words. "What are you doing here?"

"You do count, Molly. You've always counted and I've always trusted you. But you're right…I'm not okay."

"Sherlock…tell me what's wrong."

"Molly, I think I'm going to die."

Molly steps closer to Sherlock. "What do you need?"

Sherlock steps closer to Molly. "If I wasn't everything you think I am, everything I think I am, would you still want to help me?"

Molly closes what's left of the gap between them. "What do you need?"

"You."

Sherlock bends his head down, just so his lips graze Molly's forehead. Molly sighs with contentment. Sherlock kisses her temple…her cheek…her nose, and finally, his lips find her mouth. He breathes into her saying, "You've always mattered."

"Shut up, Sherlock, and just kiss me."

"Oh, that I'll gladly do, Ms. Hooper."

Sherlock presses his body against Molly's and Molly molds her body to fit Sherlock's. They fit together perfectly, like two puzzle pieces put together for the first table. Sherlock pushes Molly's body onto the mortuary slab and Molly begins to unbutton his shirt. She traces her nimble fingers across Sherlock's pectorals and Sherlock intertwines his fingers in her hair. "How dare you think you never mattered, Molly. Besides John and Mrs. Hudson, you are the only thing that matters and you are the thing I need to protect the most."

**2 Hours Later**

Sherlock stands on the edge of the St. Bart's Hospital, his trenchcoat flapping about in the wind. He gazes down and sees the doctor exit the cab. He takes a shaky breath, trying to stabilize what's left of the guilt on his conscience. _If only Moriarty…Damn you, Moriarty_.

Sherlock takes out his phone and dials those crucial numbers. The other end rings and a familiar voice picks up. "Sherlock?"

"Jim's dead. You know what to do."

The line clicks dead and Sherlock takes another shaky breath. He dials the other numbers…John's numbers. John answers on the first ring. "Sherlock?"

"Go. Run away, John. Take Mrs. Hudson with you. Just go."

"Sherlock, what's going on?"

"Turn around, John. Look up."

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?"

"John. I'm a fake."

"What?"

"John, listen to me. I pretended the entire time. I hired Rich Brooks to play Moriarty. Moriarty isn't real. He never has been. I invented him as a child."

"No, Sherlock. HE WAS GOING TO BLOW ME UP! YOU WOULDN'T DO THAT TO ME, SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock feels tears streaming down his face. "John, it was never real. I pretended to be brilliant."

"No one could ever be that brilliant. You told me, on the first day we met, all about me. You knew everything. You knew about my sister."

"John…I researched you."

"What?"

"I researched you."

"Sherlock, get off that fucking ledge."

"No, John."

Sherlock hangs up on his best friend and the wind whips around him, allowing him to look like he is wearing a cape. The trench coat billows around him and Sherlock types one last message. _Goodbye, John. _He tosses the phone away leans forward.

**3 Months Later**

Sherlock looks on towards John and Mrs. Hudson in the cemetery.

"Um…hmm….you told me once you weren't a hero. To be honest, I didn't think you were human sometimes. But to me, you were the best human…the best man and the most human person I have ever known in my entire life. That phone call…by the hospital…it didn't convince me. Nothing will ever convince me that you lied. When I met you, I was alone…so very alone and you reached out into my personal hell and gripped me….you pulled me out from my own personal hell. I love you so much, Sherlock, so do me one more favor…please, please, please don't be dead."

As John turns and walks away from the black headstone marked _Sherlock Holmes_, both the genius and the soldier shed a tear for what they have lost. Mrs. Hudson opens her arms and John crumbles into them, sobbing loud, ferocious sobs. They climb into the hearse with John going home to his frequently filled liquor cabinet and another prostitute for the night while Mrs. Hudson goes to her annual bingo night. Since Sherlock jumped, nothing has ever been the same on Baker Street again.

Sherlock sighs, wishing he could go to John and Mrs. Hudson. Still hiding behind the tombstone, Sherlock turns and sees _her_.

"Well, Sherlock, it's been three months. You promised three months and then we could go." The woman stretches out her hand, which Sherlock takes.

"You're quite right, Molly. It is time."

Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper, an extraordinary man and an ordinary woman walk hand in hand to the car waiting to take them away. As Sherlock opens the passenger door for Molly, the gold band on his fourth finger glistens in the sunlight.


	2. Chapter 2

**1 Year Later**

"Sherlock!" Molly cried from the opposite room. "Hamish is crying again!"

"Oh, for God's sake, did you try feeding him the mashed peas again, Molly?"

A pause fills the apartment, surrounded by the baby's crying.

"Molly?" Sherlock groans.

"Fine! Alright, I fed him the mashed peas!"

"You KNOW how he hates those!"

Sherlock strides into the room and gazes at his wife desperately trying to calm baby Hamish down.

"Sherlock, don't just stand there. Do something!"

Sherlock clucks his tongue and picks his son up. "It's all right, Hamish, Papa's here. No more mashed peas are in your future."

Molly glares at her husband, envying his ability to calm Hamish down. Minutes, and several exasperated sighs from Molly, later, Hamish closes his dark gray eyes as Sherlock rubs his back. The little boy Holmes has finally fallen asleep.

Molly takes her son from Sherlock's arms and gently lays him in the crib. Sherlock puts his arm around her and together they watch their son sleep. Lights shine through the pale blue curtains and dance all around the strange couple. Sherlock pulls his wife tighter and presses his lips to her forehead.

Their moment ignorant bliss is interrupted by the sound of splintering wood and a red dot appears on Hamish's chest.

Molly grabs Hamish and runs towards the master bedroom while Sherlock dashes over to where their gun safe resides. He picks out his favorite pistol, a .45 mm Glock and chooses another of the same variety for Molly. He heads to the master bedroom where Hamish and Molly reside. He looks deep into her eyes. "Remember what I taught you, Mrs. Holmes."

"I will never forget, Mr. Holmes."


	3. Chapter 3

**1 Hour Later**

Sherlock and Molly sit back to back as an old adversary holds Hamish. Gags are tied around their mouths and Molly struggles against the ropes that bind them. Tears stream down her face in tiny rivulets, hoping that they will all get out of this alive.

Moriarty clucks his tongue as Hamish wakes. "Tut, tut, you should have stayed asleep, dear Hamish."

Hamish cries at the strange face that peers over him and Molly struggles harder against the bonds wanting to caress her son, to comfort him.

Sherlock stares at Moriarty with calculating eyes. He berates himself for ever falling in love with Molly and conceiving his wonderful, beloved son. He then berates himself further for ever thinking that and starts to think of a plan that would save his entire family.

Moriarty paces around the room, bouncing little Hamish in his arms.

"Hullo, my little boy. Are you ready for the story?"

Tears stream down little Hamish's face as he screams towards the short, maniacal murderer.

"I said, ARE YOU READY FOR THE STORY?" Moriarty screams into little Hamish's face.

Hamish stops crying and stares up at Moriarty.

Sherlock's cold blue eyes stare at the mass murderer with a slow, burning hatred.

"This is the story of Sir Boast-a-Lot, my sweet little Hamish. But you may know him as your Papa." Moriarty points a gloved finger in Sherlock's direction. "Sir Boast-a-Lot was the bravest and cleverest knight at the Round Table."

Sherlock observes Moriarty silently as he goes through Sir Boast-a-Lot's story. Molly stares at little Hamish, tears streaming down her face as she wishes she could hold her son before they all died. She thinks about how little time they've had with their new identities, their new lives. _Turns out Sherlock's fall was all for nothing_, Molly thinks sorrowfully.

Sherlock wriggles his hands back and forth and he starts to feel the ropes give. _Just…a…little…more, _Sherlock grunts. The ropes give, but Sherlock keeps his hands in place and stares at Moriarty.

Moriarty finishes his story and little Hamish is fast asleep in his arms. Moriarty stalks over to Sherlock. "Poor little, Sherly. Would you like to hold your son one last time, Sherly?"

Cold fire ignites behind Sherlock's eyes, but he clamps down on the sudden surge of emotion. _Sentiment. It'll get you nowhere._ Sherlock repeats this mantra over and over again in his mind.

"Surely you aren't feeling _sentiment_, Sherlock?" asks Moriarty with a shocked look on his face. "Oh, you are, aren't you! Oh this shall be delightful!"

Moriarty places Hamish back into his crib and lights the ivory candle resting on Molly's armoire. Molly's eyes widen in terror as she realises what Moriarty is about to do. Sherlock's mind clenches and before he can even think his actions through, he stands up abruptly and points his small revolver to Moriarty's forehead.

"You shall NOT harm my son, Moriarty," spits Sherlock, that cold fire taking him over completely.


	4. Chapter 4

"No, Molly. We can't drag John into this."

"But Sherlock, we have to. Moriarty already knows you're alive."

Sherlock lightly traces his fingertips on Molly's shoulder and retreats into his thoughts, thinking of the benefits John provided. _No, you put him in enough danger when you solved crimes together. But, like Molly said, you do need a soldier on your side. _Sherlock sighs and looks down at his wife sleeping peacefully in his arms with little Hamish sleeping peacefully in hers. Sherlock takes the mobile phone from Molly's jacket pocket and quickly types in a few words.

_John, I will be coming back from Cardiff in a few days. I need to speak with you. –Molly_

_ Where shall we meet? –JW_

Sherlock cringes at the way John signs off his message, eerily reminiscent of their time together before the Fall.

_Angelo's. Thursday night. 6:00 PM. I'll be sitting at Sherlock's table. –Molly_

_See you then, Ms. Hooper. –JW_

Sherlock sighs and puts the phone back into Molly's jacket. Molly stirs and burrows deeper into Sherlock's warm embrace. Sherlock plants a kiss firmly on her forehead and promptly falls asleep.

**2 Hours Later**

The train lurches to a stop and Molly awakens groggily. Lips assault her temple and she smiles. "Good morning, Mrs. Holmes."

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes. Are you reading to meet my sister?" Molly smiles.

"Yes, I am, Mrs. Holmes, but wouldn't like a little bit of breakfast first?"

Molly stands up, places Hamish on her hip and holds out her hand to her husband. Sherlock takes her hand and together they walk to the nearest diner, Café Calcio.

The family emerges about an hour and half later and make take a cab to Molly Holmes' sister's hotel.

Sherlock inquires at the desk for a Megan Hooper and the helpful bellhop directs them to room 427 of the Premier Inn.

The family reaches the fourth floor and knocks hesitantly on Megan Hooper's door. A very young and rather attractive young woman opens the door.

_Young, approximately 22 years of age. Auburn hair and coffee colored skin, two traits that do not run in the family, so she must be adopted or a foster child. Judging by the usage of the Hooper name, she is adopted. She's a photographer, but not a photographer that uses a digital camera. Her hands are discolored by argyria, so she uses black and white film and develops her photos herself. Judging by the makeup smudged around her eyes, she went out yesterday evening and judging by her mussed up hair, she has company._

"Hello, Megan."

"Molly." The young woman nods to her older sister.

_The coldness of their exchange suggests a strained relationship._

"I have a favor to ask of you, Megan."

"It better be important, Maggot."

"I told you not to call me that," Molly pleads meekly.

Sherlock protectively wraps his arm around Molly while Megan simply cocks an eyebrow at the couple.

"What's with the kid and that fine piece of arse you got, Molly? I'd take his-" Megan looks Sherlock up and down. "-well, you know, in my mouth any day."

"Ms. Hooper, my name is Sherlock Holmes and I am your sister's wife."

Megan lights up a cigarette and gently puffs out. "Pleasure," she sneers at him.

Molly sighs. "Megan, we need you take our son, Hamish, to Istanbul with you. We're in danger, Sherlock and I, and we can't take Hamish into this…war."

Megan exhales another puff of smoke. "Yeah, sure, I'll take him, Maggot."

Molly and Sherlock say their goodbyes to Hamish and they leave him in the hotel with Megan Hooper.

**Thursday Night**

Molly and Sherlock head into Angelo's diner in disguise. Molly wearing a blonde wig and blue contacts and Sherlock hiding in the shadows. Dr. John Watson heads into the diner and looks straight at Molly. Angelo leads him to the table for three and John sits down.

"Hello, Molly," John says wearily.

_Everything about this man is brittle. He hasn't been eating. He's lost weight. He's becoming anorexic again. The lanugo that's covering his chest is the only thing that's keeping him warm. Oh, John, what have I done to you?_

"Hello, John. I need to ask you a favor."

"That sounds like something he would say. Molly, what's that on your finger?"

Molly sighs. "It's a ring, John."

"I can see that. Is that what you've been doing in Cardiff? Getting married while Sherlock's…" John chokes. "While Sherlock's dead?"

"John, it's not what you think it is."

"No, Molly, it is. Everyone's forgotten about Sherlock Holmes, my _dead_ best friend, except me! I thought you, of all people, Molly, would've understood. You're infatuated with him, Molly Hooper!" John roars.

Sherlock stands up abruptly. "You shall NOT TALK TO HER LIKE THAT, JOHN WATSON!" he roars.

"Who's this Molly? You're new lover?" he spits. "Just HAD to move on with your life, accepting the fact that Sherlock's dead? You LOVED him once, Molly! How DARE you move on like this!"

"Shut up! The lot of you! John, I never moved on with my life," Molly fumes.

"Yeah, well, who's this sod then?"

"Perhaps we should go somewhere more private, John."

"Or perhaps you should shut your mouth, Molly Hooper, and never talk to me again."

The gaunt man abruptly leaves the diner while Molly stares forlornly back at him.

"Molly. Go after him, you have to."

Molly nods sullenly and follows the haggard war veteran all the way to 221B Baker Street. She raps on the door and Mrs. Hudson appears.

"Molly, dear! I haven't seen you in ages! How have you been? Would you like a nice cuppa?"

"Mrs. Hudson, I need to speak with John. It's very important."

"Yes, dear, he's just got back…but I thought you two were going out for dinner?"

"We were, Mrs. Hudson, but he stormed off when he seen my, well, wedding ring."

The two women climb up the stairs in silence and when they reach John's door, they rap on the faded brown entrance.

"John, Molly's here to see you. She says it is quite important."

"Tell her to go away…that she is nothing but a traitor," a muffled, choked voice responds.

Molly bites her lip in earnest. "John, it's a matter of life…and death."

The quiet sobbing stops and footsteps head towards the door. John opens the door a crack and Molly can see just how much the trauma of Sherlock's fall has eaten away at John.


	5. Chapter 5

A sallow, gaunt face stares back at her, the once full, faced soldier a ghost in the shattered visage. Stringy, thin and wiry muscles replace the once strong, vibrant ones, an indication of the other death left behind.

**Istanbul, Turkey**

"Shh…shh," Megan rocks her nephew back and forth in a futile attempt to silence the crying infant. _Damn it_. A knock resounds on the door, "Room service!" a female voice rings out.

"We didn't order any!" Megan shouts back over the wails of Hamish.

Footsteps echo in the hallway and sunlight streams through the glass room. All of a sudden, a splintering sound is heard from the entrance way and footsteps head towards the living room. Megan clutches Hamish to her shoulder and looks for a way out, but before she can make her way out, a short woman materialises in front of her. Short, curly blonde hair frames a heart-shaped face, but instead of warm, blue eyes, what one would normally look for in a blonde haired woman, cold grey ones accentuate the murderous intent. A form-fitting cat suit hugs all of her curves, accentuating her breasts and her muscled calves, an indication of a highly trained operative. She unholsters her gun and points it point blank to Megan. "I'd ask you to give Sherlock a message, but that would seem futile."

She fires the gun, a small, red hole appearing in the middle of Megan's forehead, leaving a crying infant in its wake. Megan's broken body crumpled to the ground and blood seeps from the wound. The woman strides over to the corpse, and raises the gun again.

After the job is done, she pulls out a sleek, black cell phone and dials an unknown number. "Seb, it's Morstan. Tell him the deeds done."

She slides the phone shut and strides confidently out of the room.


	6. Chapter 6

**London, England**

John seats Molly, tears drying on his face, and goes to make them some tea. He enters the kitchen and stops abruptly when he sees a tall figure with an upturned collar in his kitchen. The figure turns around to face the trauma-possessed man and goes, "Hello, John."

Anger contorts on John Watson's face, realising that all those months of believing his best friend was dead were a lie. He balls his fists in anger against his sides and doesn't suppress the urge to punch Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, in the nose. Flesh meets bone as a loud crack resounds throughout the room and John hears Molly gasp in the parlor. Sherlock stands there, receiving the blow and dabbing lightly at the spot where John's fist came crashing. "Well, I won't say that I didn't deserve that."

"Damn right you deserved that! You're a right git, pretending you were dead! Can you even fathom the pain you put Mrs. Hudson and I through? After all that we've done? Sherlock, you're a damn right arse, you know that?"

"I know, John. I wouldn't have come here unless I had destroyed Moriarty's network."

"Moriarty's dead, Sherlock."

Sherlock nods almost imperceptibly to Molly, who was now standing in the archway, brows knitted together in concern. She takes a shaky breath, preparing herself for what is about to happen. "John, Moriarty isn't dead. That day on the St. Bart's rooftop, Moriarty forced Sherlock to choose…you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson or his own life. Only Moriarty had the code that would save you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Moriarty faked his own death, as well. Sherlock had already deduced Moriarty's plot beforehand and made preparations with me, and Mycroft, in order to protect the people he loves more than his own life."

"Mycroft put Molly and I into a top secret witness protection organisation."

"Why did he put you and Molly together? Why not just you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock opens his arms and Molly joins him, their wedding bands glinting in the sunlight. Realisation hits John like a tidal wave, thinking him stupid for taking this long to realise. Sherlock had grown in the past years, his face had softened some and Molly had put on a little bit of weight. Both pairs of eyes that stared at him were kinder, laxer, and more forgiving since he had seen them last.

"Mycroft put us together because we're married now, John, but I think you've already deduced that."

John nods, words unable to form in his mouth.

"There's something else you should know, John. The night before St. Bart's, I came to Molly and asked her for her help. A few months later, we had a child. We named him after you, John. His name is Hamish. Last week, however, Moriarty found us, alive, obviously, and almost kidnapped Hamish. We barely escaped with our lives. We took a train to Cardiff and left Hamish with Molly's sister, Megan, who left for Istanbul last week. We had to protect him, John, because we're all in danger. Moriarty's after us, his strength on the empire stronger than before. We're waging into a war, John, and we are not soldiers."

"A child…named after me…Hamish…"

"Yes," Sherlock replied impatiently. "Hamish Carlyle Holmes. Do you have sufficient information now?"

"What do you expect me to do, Sherlock? Wage into another war to protect a child I don't even know?"

Somewhere, a mobile rings and Molly quietly removes herself from Sherlock's embrace to answer it leaving the Baker Street boys to fight this battle alone. Sherlock hears her answer the phone, but his anger is focused on John now. _I should've known John wouldn't come willingly. _Sherlock mentally scolds himself, not seeing Molly's white face emerge from the parlor.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock's face is contorted with rage and fire sparks from John's baby blue eyes. "Sherlock…" Molly softly states.

Sherlock brushes her off. "You can get to know the child…_my child_, John. He is _my child and I will protect him until the last breath leaves my body_. Do you know why I jumped off that roof, John?" Sherlock yells, shaking in anger.

"I don't care why you jumped off that roof, Sherlock! We could have **fought** together! We could have **survived** together!" John balls his hands into fists, trying to keep his temper in control.

Molly places her hand on Sherlock's arm. "Sherlock, listen to me, please."

Sherlock waves her hand off, too engrossed in his rage. "I jumped off of that roof for you, John! For you, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, and Mycroft; **We could not have fought together, John.** Moriarty had snipers on you, on all of you, and only he had the code to call them off and he shot himself. Or so I thought."

"Sherlock! Stop your bloody argument with John, and LISTEN TO ME!" Molly shouts at her husband.

Both men turn to stare at her, flabbergasted by the sudden outburst from Molly Holmes. It was then when Sherlock realised the tear stained cheeks. He opens his arms wide and Molly collapses into them, her voice muffled by his coat. She says words that are imperceptible and Sherlock gently tugs her face from his chest and asks her to repeat what she said in a voice that left John stunned.

"There's been a murder, Sherlock. Megan's been killed. Hamish, too."

The words echo in Sherlock's mind. _Hamish…_

Pictures flash in Sherlock's palace. Images of Hamish's first birthday, his first Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving…when Molly and him first brought Hamish home.

Molly raises her palm to Sherlock's cheek, gently brushing away the tears.

John looks away, tears beginning to form in his own eyes, allowing the mother and father some semblance of privacy.

He begins to walk away, but two hands grab onto his jumper and turn him around. Surprisingly, John is looking into Molly's eyes, and not Sherlock's. Her milk chocolate eyes are wild with grief and rage. Her voice trembles with a ferocity that stuns even Sherlock.

"You have to help us, John."

A banging noise resounds through the kitchen and both John and Molly turn towards the nose. Sherlock's face is crooked with grief, rage, denial, and an almost inhuman pain. His fist goes to the wall again and again, his knuckles becoming bruised and bloody, just an outward indication of the agony he feels inside.

_If only Anderson could see him now,_ John thinks to himself, recalling all of the times Anderson swore that the man that is Sherlock Holmes had no feelings whatsoever.

Molly goes over to Sherlock, putting her hand cautiously on his arm in a motherly fashion. Sherlock yanks his arm away, not wanting any comfort but to feel all of this at once.

"Sherlock, please…"

And when those two very soft words were spoken, John himself felt that agony; the same grief that would forever be present in the hearts of Molly and of Sherlock, but would only be present once in John's lifetime.

Sherlock presses his shaking form against the wall, a strangled animal-like voice ripping through his chest, his lips biting back a wail of pain. Beside him is Molly, stroking his arm, telling him it's okay to cry, that it is alright to let his pain shine through. Beside him is Molly, this time being the strong one, even though the pain and the tears are so very evident in her deep brown eyes. Eventually, Sherlock turns to her, John just observing, and gathers her into his arms, allowing her to finally grieve.

John observes Molly's shoulders shake as the sobs wrack her body. There in that moment stood the most unlikely of couples. A genius, caught in the trap of his mind had finally fallen in love with an ordinary woman, trapped by her love for a genius.


	8. Chapter 8

**3 Hours Later**

Molly and Sherlock are still intertwined, comforting each other in their embrace while John prepares the final meal of the day. Words haven't been spoken since the news about Megan and Hamish arrived while many, many tears have been shed. For John, it had been refreshing to see Sherlock act human, even though the circumstances were unfortunate.

A splintering noise resounds and masked men make their way through the room, searching for something, searching for someone. They notice John in the kitchen and he drops his bowl in shock, reaching for his hardly-used handgun. The intruders briefly hit him over the head and John drops like a stone, moving on to the next room where Sherlock and Molly reside.

The masked men wrench Molly out of Sherlock's grip and begin to exit the flat.

"Sherlock!" Molly screams in terror, trying to claw her way back to Sherlock, tears streaming down her face.

"Molly!" Sherlock's face is a contorted mixture of rage and inhuman pain, two emotions that should never be mixed together. He fights his way to Molly, grasping her hand briefly before the masked men tear her out of his grip and knock him unconscious as well. Sherlock's vision hazes over, but not before he hears Molly screaming out his name one final time.

**Somewhere in Central London**

Molly awakens from her drugged stupor tied to a hard wooden chair, head lolling about. She shakes the fogginess from her head and a fist meets her jaw. Her head snaps to the side, her eyes blinking back the pain.

Footsteps echo in the small, dank room and a shadowy figure emerges from the depths.

"Hullo, Molly," a lilting Irish voice sounds from the gloom.

Molly blinks up into the face of her captor. "What do you want from me?" she spits into the face of her gracious host.

"I want Sherlock," Moriarty responds, a look of glee on his face. "And now I have the two things he loves most with me."

"What do you mean two?"

Moriarty grins and snaps his fingers. The door opens with a bang and two very monstrous men drag in a figure, the face obscured by a potato sack. The guards throw the human onto the hard concrete floor and Molly flinches as she hears the large snap of the right patella shattering on the impact. The creature howls in pain and Moriarty's face twists into a large grimace. He holds out his hand and the very large man to his left hands him a Glock. Moriarty pistol whips the creature and the skull resounds with a crack, the figure falling limply to the floor.

Moriarty hands the handgun back and dusts off his hands. "Now where were we? Oh right, the two people Sherly loves most."

Moriarty motions for the potato sack to be lifted off the creature's face and Molly gasps as long, bloodied auburn hair is revealed.


	9. Chapter 9

(Chapter 8 **here**)

Molly looked at her sister, her mind reeling. The way the dirt was collected on her clothing, Molly guessed, no, deduced, that Megan had been there at least a few weeks. Who knows how long Molly had been there?

_Would Sherlock be looking for me?_

**London, England, 3 Weeks Earlier**

Sherlock wakes, John standing over him, a worried look on his face.

"You've been out a while, Sherlock. Do you remember what happened?"

Sherlock stares groggily back at John, trying to recall what had surpassed.

He tries to get up, but gentle, doctor's hands push him back down.

"Careful, Sherlock, I think you may have a concussion."

Sherlock tries to shake the fog from his concussed brain, his mind palace running slightly slower than normal.

He tries to pick through what had happened, going back weeks and shaking the memories from his mind when he realises that those are the wrong ones.

John presses his hands on either side of Sherlock's head, trying to prevent him from moving any more than he needs to.

"Stop it, John. I need to think." Sherlock waves John's hands away, concentrating even harder on what had surpassed within the past 12 hours.

The memories that had been stored in Sherlock's mind palace were covered in a blur. Sherlock's face contorts into a grimace as he places himself at the scene.

_John is in the kitchen, making some supper. He drops whatever he was holding and it splinters, the sound resonating through the kitchen…what was before that?_

Sherlock concentrates harder, ignoring the pounding in his head from the concussion. The senses rewind in his mind as he goes further back.

_John and I had been arguing, John upset over Hamish and the fact that Molly and I were asking him to wage into a war. Molly interrupts us by yelling at us and finally I notice the pain in her face. She tells us Hamish and Megan are dead._

Sherlock lets out a strangled noise, a barely human sound. The words are ripped from his throat. "Hamish…"

John stares at Sherlock, his blue eyes piercing through the layers the events of the fall had torn through. John realises that Sherlock had changed and that John himself could not understand the pain that Sherlock had gone through. Here was a man that had been transformed from a cold, dis-involved, self-defined sociopath to a man who was warmer (than he had been), more involved, and finally, a father.

"Yes, Sherlock, Hamish is gone," John says quietly.

"Where's Molly?"

The expression on John's face is steady.

"Where. Is. Molly?" Sherlock repeats himself, anger written across his face.

"Try to remember, Sherlock," John replies gently.

Sherlock closes his eyes once more, replaying the events for a final time.

_I remember my reaction to the news…it had been like a thousand, no, a million knives piercing my heart. Hamish…I hadn't felt that same pain since St. Bart's. Molly comforted me, telling me it was…all right to cry. _

Subconsciously, Sherlock runs over the slight cuts and bruises on his knuckles.

_I remember hitting the wall. I remember holding Molly and three hours later, John went to make dinner. There's a sound…what sound is it?_

Sherlock replays the sound over and over again in his head.

_It's the sound of splintering wood. Someone's kicked the door to 221B open. I can hear Mrs. Hudson shrieking, someone's taken her hostage for the time being. Whoever invaded headed to the kitchen. John dropped his bowl, the glass shattered, and he reached for his handgun. They knocked him unconscious as well and they headed to the living room._

**_They took Molly and left me._**

Sherlock's head snaps forward as he realises Molly's gone.

"They took her," he says flatly to John.

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"You needed to figure it out yourself. You would have just refuted me outright."

Sherlock clenches his hands into tight balls of fury.

"We're getting her back."

"You don't know where she is or who took her."

"Moriarty."

**Central London, Present Day**

Molly stares exhaustedly at the roof, trying to recall how long she had been in this location.

_Where am I? Oh Sherlock…come find me soon._

A single, solitary tear runs down Molly's face. _No, you must be strong. _

The door opens once more and Moriarty comes through.

"Well, well, well, it seems like my men haven't broken you yet."

Molly winces in pain as Moriarty grabs her jaw and forces her to look at him.

"I admire you, Ms. Hooper.

"It's Dr. Holmes, Moriarty," Molly spits at him.

"Well, then, Dr. Holmes, I admire you."

Molly stares back at him silently.

Not getting a response from her, Moriarty backhands her, her head snapping to the right and her mouth spitting out blood.

"Ask me why, Dr. Holmes."

Molly gingerly turns her face back to Moriarty, but stays silent.

Moriarty hits her again and repeats his request, but Molly stays silent, her will refusing to bend.

They last a half an hour like this, Moriarty striking her, but she refuses to give in.

Moriarty motions to his men waiting at the door. They nod and go out of the room. Molly's chin trembles slightly. It's enough for Moriarty to notice and he grins at her.

"You know what's coming, don't you, Dr. Holmes?"

Again, refusing to say anything, Molly stares dead ahead.

Moriarty caresses Molly's face tenderly, his actions betraying the fury in his deep brown eyes.

"You never gave us a chance, Molly dear," he murmurs into the darkness. "As soon as dear old Sherly said I was _gay_, you broke it off. I never got a chance to prove to you I wasn't."

Moriarty presses himself flush against Molly, his weight bearing down on her. Molly grimaces as her mind replays the horrors of the past few weeks. It was the same ordeal every day. Moriarty would come into the room and talk to her. Molly would refuse to acknowledge his presence. Moriarty would become angry with her.

Moriarty's nimble fingers travel down Molly's sides, gently pulling at the front of her ratty blouse and undoing the buttons that covered her modestly.

As the last button had become undone, his fingers traveled lower, lightly tracing the front of her, teasing her.

Moriarty presses his lips against her ears, breathing into them lightly and nipping at them, gently at first.

"I never told you that I brought back two trophies from Istanbul, did I, Molly dear?"

"Only serial killers take trophies," Molly hisses at him, fury rising inside of her as he presses his hand against her.

"I never said I was a serial killer," Moriarty replies evenly, pressing his lips viciously to Molly's.

Molly turns away in disgust, but Moriarty grabs her jaw roughly.

"You are not leaving," he snarls violently in her face.

"Not yet, but Sherlock will come."

"Your faith in your husband is endearing, Molly, but what you need is a real man."

"Sherlock is a real man."

"The only thing that Sherlock is is a child. He will never be anything more and it will do you good to realise that he will not be coming for you."

"You underestimate my husband."

"I have never underestimated him, but I have overestimated his abilities. Loving you, marrying you has made him soft. Losing you will make him the worthy adversary he once was."

Moriarty grins lasciviously at Molly and she bites her lip in fear, aware of the horrors to come.

**221B, Present Day**

"I've had everyone's, including Mycroft's, contacts looking for her for weeks, John!"

Sherlock throws one of the St. Bart's beakers across the room in frustration.

"I know, Sherlock. Where would Moriarty take Molly? Think like Moriarty."

"I don't want to think like Moriarty. I cannot imagine what he's doing to her, John."

Sherlock's grip tightens, shattering the other beaker being held in the other hand. Blood drips off of his hand and John rolls his eyes.

"Sherlock, if you break anything else, we're going to have to take you to the hospital."

"Leave it."

Sherlock drops the remainder of the glass and stalks over to his couch and curls up into a fetal position, trying to think.

He closes his eyes and replays that day over in his head once more.

_Black clothes, carefully freed of its lint. No signature scent native to any part of the world. Their voices…there's something about their voices…they weren't talking English. They were talking Hungarian? German? Polish? Czech? **Russian.** Most likely hired and discarded after their use. _

"John, give me your laptop."

"Yours is right there."

"John. **_Laptop._**"

John sighs and passes his laptop to Sherlock, who immediately searches Lestrade's crime database, searching for murders of foreigners within the past month.

Two names pop up in the database and Sherlock quickly scans over the documents with his calculating gaze.

_Aleksei Zhilov, 26. Part of the Russian mafia. Approximately 6'5, at 220 lbs. Murdered by a quick slit of the carotid. Isidor Zhilov, 23. Younger brother to Aleksei Zhilov. Approximately 5'8 and 140 lbs. Murdered the same way. Killer was never found. The bodies were found discarded by the Ambassador's Theatre at about 3:00 AM by a drunk couple shagging in the alleyway. Needless to say, that ruined the mood._

As Sherlock moves to close the database, another result shows up, a female Jane Doe with auburn hair.

_She looks familiar._

Sherlock looks at the autopsy report to find that the woman died from a singular blow to the back of the head.

Sherlock looks at the markings that could have possibly enabled someone to identify her and there is a small star tattoo on her inner left wrist.

_I've seen that tattoo before._


	10. Chapter 10

"Sherlock, do you want a cuppa?" Mrs. Hudson calls up the stairs.

"Shut up, Mrs. Hudson! I'm thinking!"

Sherlock lies down on the couch, placing his fingers in a small triangle under his chin and closes his eyes. He pulls up all of the women that he knows with a small tattoo on their left wrists.

_No, not her. Doesn't have auburn hair. Blonde, too skinny, brunette, __**auburn.**__ Name: Kate Winters, a girl of Miss Adler's. _

"JOHN!" bellows Sherlock.

John thunders down the stairs, "Jesus Christ, Sherlock, what do you want?"

"Pack a bag and grab your coat."

"Whatever for, Sherlock?" John retorts impatiently.

"We're going to America."

Before John has time to react, Sherlock bounds to his bedroom and throws on one of his signature suits. He walks out of the flat while buttoning up his jacket and grabs his peacoat and blue scarf.

"Coming, John? I do require your aid, John, seeing as my _wife_ has been kidnapped."

**New York City, New York, 10 Hours Later**

"Miss Adler, there is a man here to see you."

"Yes, thank you, darling. I shall see him in my office. Bring up a tea tray, please," replies Irene Adler absently.

She sits down in her chair, reviewing the file of one of her newest clients, Mr. Samuel Levi. _Hmm…prefers a dom to being a dom. I think we can arrange that. Prefers chains to rope bondage and is into rough play. I'm certain we can find a woman to accommodate Mr. Levi._

In big scrawling letters, Irene writes _Antonia Hopkins_ on the file and puts it in her outbox. The door opens and her secretary leads in two very familiar men.

"Ah, Miss Adler. I see life in the Big Apple is treating you well."

"Oh yes, my dear. It's rather exciting. What brings you here?"

"Now wait a minute, Sherlock. Irene Adler is dead."

"Oh no, my dear, I am very much alive."

Irene smiles alluringly over at John who becomes flustered and takes a seat in the lush office.

"Now tell me, Mr. Holmes. What brings you to New York City? It's a tad far from London."

"I need your help, Miss Adler."

Irene crosses her legs, showing a bit of thigh. John raises an eyebrow at Irene's flirtatious manner but says nothing. "With what, Mr. Holmes?"

"My wife," Sherlock responded crisply. "Has been kidnapped by an…acquaintance of yours, Miss Adler."

"Your wife, Mr. Holmes?" Irene raised an eyebrow. "Please tell me it's not that mousy, pitiful thing."

"I believe you are referring to the former Dr. Hooper, Miss Adler. Yes, that 'mousy, pitiful thing' is my wife."

"Interesting," murmured the Woman.

Sherlock cocks his head, attempting once again to deduce his once greatest adversary.

"Oh stop it, Mr. Holmes. You've come here for one reason; let us get that out of the way."

"Yes, Miss Adler. While I was searching for Dr. Holmes, I came across a dead woman with auburn hair."

"Why should that have any connection to me?"

"She had a small star tattoo on her inner left wrist, much like all of your women have. Her name was Kate Winters."

"I had wondered where she had gone off to. I suppose she never left London," murmured Irene Adler absently. "Very well, then, Mr. Holmes. You have my help and I am out of your debt."

"Very well, then, Miss Adler. I have a case file for you to look over. While a woman was in Istanbul, she was murdered by a single gunshot to the forehead. The baby she was harboring was killed in the same manner. Can you tell me who fired the shot?"

"Why does she and the infant matter so much?"

Irene studies Sherlock's eyes carefully and notices a hint of unmasked pain, the pain a father would feel.

"Ah so that is your child. Why was he in Istanbul."

Sherlock turns his face away and motions for John to speak.

"I suppose this is where I come in. Sherlock and Molly were attacked while in London. Sherlock's old adversary, Jim Moriarty, attempted to kidnap Hamish and kill Sherlock and Molly. Sherlock travelled to Cardiff to place Hamish into Molly's sister's safekeeping. Megan Hooper was travelling to Istanbul within the week. They assumed he would be safe with her. While in Istanbul, Megan was hunted down by an assassin of Moriarty's. The child and Megan were killed within minutes."

Irene takes the case files and skims over them.

_No sign of forced entry. Either the victim knew the predator or the predator was posing as hotel staff. Killed by a singular bullet, approximately .75 mm in size. Signature of one of Moriarty's mercenaries. The gun is most likely a Colt M1911 pistol to frame the American government. Clever, very much so. However, not clever enough._

"While aligned with Moriarty, I got to know all of his mercenaries that were dispatched all over Europe. There is one mercenary in each major country, some in each major European city. Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's lieutenant, is a very skilled sniper. At my time, he was placed in Berlin. Anna Moriarty, Moriarty's half-sister, is skilled in martial arts, specifically capoeira, jujutsu, subak and tegumi. She was placed in Paris. Mary Morstan was placed in Athens. Antony Blackwood, skilled in gun manufacturing and the primary weapons manufacturer for Moriarty's network, was placed in Prague. Giovanni Lorenzetti, a custom relations expert, was placed in Rome Italy. Sebastian Moran also has a brother working for Moriarty. He was not a major player as of my time ending, but that could have changed. Moran was getting all of the major players in Moriarty's game to teach him their areas of expertise. He would be placed in Istanbul at the time of Ms. Hooper's death. However, the semi-automatic pistol that was used to kill Hamish and Megan is a signature of Mary Morstan's. It is possible that Simon Moran has been reassigned to a different country. Another option, however, is that Mary Morstan was specifically designated to murder your sister-in-law and your son. Do keep in mind that this is complete speculation, Mr. Holmes. I also hope that this information will benefit you, and per our second last conversation, I must remind you to not let your heart rule your head, Sherlock."

"I'm trying not to, Miss Adler, however, seeing as this is _my family and all that I care about and love_, my heart is ruling my head."


	11. Chapter 11

"Well, then, now that we have that out of the way, I suggest we get down to business," John states awkwardly, looking down at his thumbs.

Irene cocks her head at John's words. "Ah…you wish me to travel with you to Istanbul."

Sherlock's eyes study her, calculating her next words.

"Oh, there is no need to deduce me, Mr. Holmes. I will be joining you. Moriarty killed one of my girls; it is my duty to avenge her death."

"Oh, surely she was not one of your favorites?" Sherlock taunts.

"Sherlock," John says quietly.

Irene stiffens at Sherlock's words. "How dare you insinuate such a thing, Mr. Holmes," she retorts ungraciously. "You come into my business, asking for help, calling in a favor, and you insult me. I have given you information; me journeying with you to Istanbul, a place where I am most unwelcome, is merely aiding you and nothing more. Kate Winters was one of my girls. She worked here as a Burlesque dancer and was equally skilled with a riding crop. I will not have you insinuating I was sleeping -," Irene spat the word. "- with one of my employees. Good day, gentlemen. I will see you in the evening. My private jet leaves at 6:30 PM, no later. Oh, and Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock turns questioningly to Irene.

"Do try to be punctual."

Irene stalks out of the room, her crimson pumps clacking angrily on the marble flooring.

"Always a pleasure," John murmurs.

-Central London-

Moriarty wipes the sweat from his brow, leaving Molly whimpering in his wake. Her silent sobs infuriate him and he beats her with his backhand.

"Shut up, stupid woman!"

He turns away, rubbing his jaw as the small room's door opens creakily. "Boss," a strange man with a heavy German accent. "Our contact in New York City just reported in. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson travelled across the Atlantic to meet with a certain Miss Irene Adler."

Through her tears and her almost-broken spirit, the once meek Molly Hooper allows a small seed of hope to bloom in her chest.

"Move her," Moriarty orders and a pair of rough hands force her to her feet. She stumbles, her knees and weakened leg muscles unable to bear her weight. The man grunts and carries her out of the cell.

"Where to, Boss?"

"Let's see if Mr. Sherlock Holmes is able to find her in beautiful Roma. Allow Lorenzetti to do with her what he wishes."  
The man nods and exits the room.

_Perfect, Sherlock. Now, where will Miss Adler lead you to next?_


End file.
